


Foxglove?

by Pomodoridori



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: :0, Ignore me switching between tenses like a onion sheds layers, M/M, also Victor totally has an implied Praise Kink and also implied that He Gets Off On Killing People, cutter is...the Worst(TM), i WILL row this boat all by my lonesome, look someone’s gotta write that cutterxriemann porn and that someone is me, no seriously I was disappointed I haven’t seen a SINGLE cutter n Riemann fic, someone gets mildly burned, theres also a huge power imbalance, warnings for Marcus cutter and everything he entails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 16:14:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16308497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pomodoridori/pseuds/Pomodoridori
Summary: Victor and Cutter fuck. It could’ve gone better.





	Foxglove?

Victor entered Marcus Cutter’s office straight-backed and calm. 

Cutter sat sprawled in the chair behind his desk, reading some kind of report, and didn’t even bother to look up when Riemann entered. 

Victor wasn’t troubled. He knew Mr. Cutter would ignore him for a few moments before finally finishing whatever he was doing. Riemann stood in an easy parade rest in front of the desk, waiting patiently. 

Three minutes passed, Cutter humming aimlessly beneath his breath before his ice cold eyes came flickering up to Riemann’s face. “Go ahead and take a seat, Victor. You’ve caught me at a busy moment.”  Cutter gives Riemann a conspiratorial wink as if Victor was in on some kind of joke. As if he’d wandered into Cutter’s office by accident, instead of being called in from the medical bay.

“Yes, sir.” Was all Riemann replied, and sat. The chair was  _ too  _ comfortable, and Victor had to fight the urge to close his eyes and let out a sigh of relief. He’d nearly pulled his back out the last mission he was on, putting down some rogue SI-5 mongrels as per Cutter’s usual request, and although he’d returned nearly a whole...three hours ago (and injured it more than forty-eight hours prior), his back was still giving him trouble. That, and he really needed to catch up on sleep. The last seventy-six hours had really been...a lot.  Even for Victor’s standards.

There had been explosions.  And a small fire. And hauling ass through a dense forest to avoid being mauled by a rather vicious boar.  All in all, the assignment had really gone to shit. Normally, putting down SI-5 agents was easy work.  _ Normally.  _  But this one had spiraled when some of the intel he’d gotten turned out to be rotten.  Really, he was lucky to get away at all, after he’d finished gutting Mrs.Faulkner and the two other agents she’d been working with.  CIA, he thought, but he hadn’t had time to confirm. Mr. Cutter would not be pleased by that. 

“Mr. Riemann.”  Victor was startled to find he’d somehow managed to sink back into the chair anyways, and he jerked himself upright and met Cutter’s void stare.

“Yes, sir?” he hazarded.

Cutter smiled with too many teeth.  “So how was your mission, Victor? I heard it went a little...pear shaped.”

“Yes sir.”  Cutter leaned forward on his desk, resting his fists beneath his chin.  Victor took a steeling breath before continuing, ignoring a sudden pinching in his back.

“Some of the intel I’d received was...incorrect.  I had to compensate. Things got a little messy. But the mole is dead, and so are her co-conspirators.  I believe they were CIA, sir.”

Cutter cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowed dangerously and winning smile still intact.

“I’d like to go through the database to confirm their identities.”

“Hmm.”  Cutter blinked slowly, then sat up quickly.  “Of course, Victor. Who provided intelligence?”  

Victor barely concealed his smile, vicious.   _ Someone’s going to lose their head. _  “I understand it was a ‘Mr. Byrne’ from SI-4.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. He was a...solid agent.,” Mr. Cutter replied.  “I think I’ll have him skinned.” And then, in the same bright tone, he said, “We’ll meet tomorrow at seven p.m.  I’ll send you the details later.”

“Yes, sir,” Riemann said, curious until he remembered the last time they’d met so late.   _ That _ had been a good night.  He licked his lips, almost unconsciously.

Then, with a wave of his hand, Cutter made a shoo-ing motion and went back to his papers.  The clock on the wall behind his desk read 10:00 p.m. 

“Good night, sir.”  Victor stood slowly, careful to balance his weight and avoid making his back throb more.  He exited the room quietly, pleased that Cutter hadn’t punished him for the mission gone wrong.  Or, at least, hadn’t punished him  _ yet _ .

\--

Dinner with Cutter was as usual: expensive and tasty and heady with a bit too much wine, and touches that lingered a  _ tad _ too long to be considered quite...proper.

By the time Cutter paid the exorbitant bill with a Goddard Futuristic’s credit card, Victor was practically  _ raring _ to go. It was exactly his poorly disguised impatience that made Cutter  _ insist  _ on walking to Riemann’s home instead of taking a car.  Victor knew better than to argue, and ignored his spike of nervousness when Cutter casually mentioned where his house was located, even though Victor knew he’d only ever reported living in an apartment across town.  As far as Goddard was concerned, Victor’s little house a mile from here didn’t exist-- and yet, Cutter knew. Victor sighed, ignored Cutter’s piercing look, and offered him his coat.

Marcus slipped it on with a smile, and after letting Riemann wrap a scarf around his neck (and shoulder Cutter’s briefcase), they strolled out into the night.

\--

Cutter laughed when he saw Victor’s house.  “It looks like some old dear grandmother lives here,” he giggled as Riemann fiddled with the lock outside the gate.  “Look at all those  _ flowers _ ,” he continued.

Riemann shrugged.  “I like gardening.”

Cutter giggled, again, when the shape of the house came into focus through the dense vegetation.  “It’s a little bungalow. Really, Victor, I hadn’t expected you to be  _ this  _ sentimental!”

Riemann could only shrug again.

Cutter leaned into Riemann’s side.  “I  _ liked _ the style of the forties.   _ Very  _ endearing.”

Victor grunted, and let them in with his key.

\---

Victor was the kind of man who  _ liked _ obeying orders.  And Cutter was the type who excelled at giving them, so--

So that was why Victor found himself standing awkwardly in front of his bed, dressed in nothing but a few scraps of lace and being eyed up by Cutter.  Marcus was sprawled against the pillows, a glass of wine in hand, flushed and very likely drunk. Victor wasn’t too sober himself, but still enough to be worried every time the wine sloshed close to his expensive duvet.  Riemann wasn’t a man of many comforts, but having a plush bed to collapse on after his long missions was something of habit of his. One he didn’t want ruined by the stench of rotted wine. Of course, he could always buy fresh bedding, but… he was partial to these ones.  They’d lasted four years without getting bloodstains on them, after all.

“Victor,” Cutter purred, “come here.”  He patted the bedspread beside him and took a gulp of his wine, watching Riemann over the top of the glass.

“Yes, sir,” Riemann said, still a little distracted by the sheets.  Then he carefully lowered himself onto the bed and scooted over to sit by Cutter’s side.  Cutter’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then he sighed and manhandled himself into Victor’s lap.  Riemann kept his eyes on the wineglass, perilously close to his duvet, and put a steadying hand on Cutter’s back.  “Victor,” Marcus huffed as he pushed himself onto Riemann’s chest, “you’re not  _ focused _ .”

Victor blinked, met Cutter’s gaze.  It was mellower than usual. Probably the wine.  “Ah, sorry, sir,” Riemann said, “it’s the alcohol. I was thinking about the bedsheets.”

Cutter snorted.  “Bedsheets,” he muttered, before leaning way over and placing his wine glass on Victor’s bedside table.  “Better?” he asked, and it’s more of a statement than a question.

“Yes, sir,” Victor replied.

Cutter squirmed until he found a comfortable position straddling him, and then ran his hands over the lingerie that’s stretched thin over Victor’s chest.

Riemann watched, kept a steadying hand on Cutter’s lower back, and let his hand slide under the man’s shirt to finger the roll of fat at Cutter’s hips. (Cutter is an oddity. He isn’t quite fat  _ or _ thin. Just— it’s clear he eats well, and enjoys eating. Plump  _ might  _ be the word Victor’s looking for, but it doesn’t quite rest right on his tongue—)

“It’s a shame.  I ought to have bought these just a size larger for you,” Cutter mused, plucking at the lingerie one-handedly. He looks almost bored, and that’s— that’s  _ dangerous.  _

“Although,” he continued, smirking, “there’s a certain aesthetic to the tightness—“

Suddenly, Victor remembers what he’s supposed to be doing. He doesn’t quite know how he forgot, but…

He put his other hand on Cutters hips, bracing him, before leaning forward and kissing Cutter hard on the mouth. He’s not gentle, and someone’s teeth catch on his lips, and then there’s the heady taste of blood flooding his mouth. 

Cutter smiled when he pulled back, mouth red and wicked. “ _ There _ you are, Victor, I thought I’d never find you!” He exclaimed. 

Victor grunted. 

“Now,” Cutter continued, tone dropping low, “you’re going to need to strip me.”

Victor licked his lips. “Yes, sir.”

He starts by unbuttoning Cutter at the neck. Cutter’s white button up opens slowly, like some kind of chrysalis. Once he’s reached the last button Victor reaches out to push the shirt off Cutter’s shoulders. It scrunches around Cutter’s wrists— he hasn’t yet undone the cuffs— and Riemann takes a moment to give Cutter’s body a closer look. Marcus is breathing slowly, utterly calm, and sitting patient while Victor drinks him in. Victor knows this patience won’t last. Riemann reaches up, rests a hand on the juncture between Marcus’s shoulders and throat. Imagines his large hands wrapping around that frail thin neck and pushing down hard, until Cutter is gasping and gurgling and—

Victor trails his hand down Cutter’s torso, the slight curve of his belly.  He starts fiddling with the top button of Cutter’s pants, feeling flustered.  _ If I try to strangle him he’ll incinerate me, _ Victor thought to himself.  _ Even thinking about it is dangerous.  _

“Ah-ah-ah, Victor,” Marcus tuts, “you haven’t finished with my shirt yet, have you?”

Victor debates telling him that he’s finished with it, is planning on leaving it piled around Cutter’s wrists, but then remembers the fact that he very much enjoys having a tongue, and replies, quietly, “No, sir.”

He’s quick to unbutton the cuffs of the sleeves and roll the shirt off, and when he’s done with that Cutter makes a show of stretching out his arms. 

Victor watches, waits. 

“Mmmm,” Cutter sighs, “I guess you had better get on with it, then.”

Victor nods and goes for the pants. 

—-

Cutter’s been... _ playing _ with him for a while. Victor’s very nearly desperate at this point, stretched out around four of his own fingers, dick hard and muscles straining with tension. Cutter’s watching him, sipping at his wine with one hand and absentmindedly jacking himself off with the other. Victor can’t help but notice that Cutter’s hand is trembling, though, making the wine inside the glass shiver. 

“S-sir?” Victor begins, knowing it’s a risk. “I-I think I’m loose enough…”

Cutter smiles at him benignly. “Of course you are, Victor. I’d just like to finish my wine. Keep going.” 

Cutter’s eyes narrow a tad when Victor takes a moment to start fingering himself again, but the placid smile returns after Riemann can’t quite stifle a whimper when his fingers nudge his prostate in just  _ that  _ way. 

A moment passes. “On second thought,” Cutter says, putting the wineglass back on the bedside table, “I think I’ve had enough of watching.”

Victor makes a noise of relief, sits up, and pulls his fingers out, rubbing at his wrist.  _ Keeping it bent for so long hurt… _

Marcus kisses him hard on the lips as he shoves Victor back down on the bed, straddling him. One of Cutter’s thighs brushes his dick, and Victor twitches at the unexpected stimulation. He groans and arches his back as Cutter pins his hands above his head, rough.  Marcus finally pulls away from the kiss, leaving them both breathless, and takes an extra fistful of lube and starts to slick up his dick. 

Victor feels himself clench in anticipation, and he bites his lip to keep himself from making embarrassing noises. Cutter smirks at him anyway.

“All right,” he says after a moment, “I’m going to fuck you now.”

Cutter takes himself in hand and pushes in slowly. It feels  _ wonderful _ . There’s a little burning from the stretch, but Victor forgets the pain when Cutter’s dick brushes against his prostate. Victor moans, spreads his legs a little further. 

Finally, Cutter’s bottomed out.  He’s shivering, and when Victor looks at Marcus’s face there’s something far more human behind those eyes than usual. 

Cutter is mostly silent, breathing deep, letting Victor adjust. Riemann wiggles against the pillows that prop his hips up— Marcus’s steady breathing stutters— and puts a broad hand on Cutter’s back. 

Marcus bends further over to mouth at the old bullet wound on Victor’s shoulder, and slides his gaze over to meet Riemann’s eyes. “I’m going to start moving now, Victor,” he says. 

“Yessir,” Victor replied, voice steadier than he’d expected. 

Cutter blinks slowly, draws his hips back, and then shoves them forwards. Victor keens. 

When Marcus thrusts forwards and back again he makes a noise that gets caught halfway in his throat, and Riemann runs his hands up Cutter’s back. Victor’s sweaty, shuddering, trying to kiss at Cutter’s throat and muss his hair, pushing his head downwards with one of his hands. 

Marcus keeps rolling his hips, and when Victor shifts a little under him suddenly Cutter’s dick is rubbing right on his prostate, and Victor chokes on a curse. 

Cutter meets his gaze. He looks…. _ hungry.  _

Victor’s a bit too far gone to care. He smiles up at Cutter, sloppily, lazily, arches his back and moves his hips to meet Cutter’s thrusts. 

Marcus’s breath hitches, and his hips stutter for a moment, the hungry look in his eye fading. 

“Oh,  _ fuck _ ,” he groans, and Victor agrees wholeheartedly. 

A few more moments. A few more thrusts. And then Victor’s throwing his head back, cumming harder than he has in more than a month. Cutter keeps going— he’s not as worked up as Victor, hasn’t been touching himself for as long— but when Victor dares to bite him on the shoulder Marcus makes a choking noise and cums. Victor wrinkles his nose at the wet warm sensation, but doesn’t say anything. The afterglow is more powerful than his discomfort, anyway. 

He feels like his spine is melting. Marcus is still inside him, flopped over his broad chest like so much dead weight, coming down from his high.  He’s breathing faster than normal, and warmer, too. It’s nice, and Victor puts a cautious hand on Cutters lower back. Marcus hums in response.

—

Victor woke in the middle of the night badly needing to pee, which almost always happened when he drank just a tad too much. He heaved a sigh, and gently pushed Marcus’s arm off his side, where it’d been draped haphazardly. Cutter was pressed up against his back, nice and warm, breath raspy in his ear. It’d have been nice to stay there, but the throbbing in Victor’s bladder made that impossible. He’d just get back quickly and be careful to not wake Marcus up, Victor thought to himself. With that, he hightailed it to the bathroom. 

A few minutes later, and feeling much better, Victor returned to bed, only to find that Cutter was no longer curled up in the nest of blankets. Victor frowned, wondering where he could be, before the smell of cigarette smoke wafted by his nose. He debated getting back into bed, where the sheets were nice and warm, but with a sigh decided it was probably better to keep an eye on Cutter and make sure he didn’t accidentally fall and break his neck. Or something. 

Victor found Marcus on the front porch, staring out over the dark garden, the only light coming from the red-hot end of his cigarette. It was chilly out, and Victor snagged his coat to wrap around himself so he wouldn’t be totally exposed. He rapped his knuckles on the doorway to alert Cutter to his presence and stepped out to stand beside him. 

Marcus took a deep pull on his cigarette, face momentarily illuminated with a bright red light that died down to embers as he blew the smoke out. He had a blanket draped over his shoulders loosely. He didn’t really seem to notice the cold. Victor leaned on the railing beside him and looked out over the garden. 

“It’s beautiful,” Marcus said, voice rough from sleep and smoke. 

“Yeah,” Victor replied, “it is.”

They stood there for a few more minutes, enjoying the sound of the city, the cars rushing by in the distance, the rustling of the leaves. The silence was almost comfortable until Victor said, “Y’know, I really liked stargazing as a kid. Wish I could see the stars better here in the city...but they’re blotted out by all the lights.”

Cutter gave a little chortle, but he sounded unamused. Cold. His cigarette was nearly burnt down to his fingers. Riemann swallowed, suddenly nervous.

Then, Cutter turned to him with a satisfied little grin, and leaned towards him as if he wanted to embrace, and Victor thought that perhaps  _ maybe _ he hadn’t fucked up as he put a broad tentative arm around Cutter’s shoulders, and then Cutter took the end of his cigarette and extinguished it on Victor’s bare neck. 

Victor barely managed to keep himself from yelping, but he didn’t manage to keep himself from yanking away from Cutter to slap a hand on the burning spot on his neck. His first impulse was to punch Cutter right across his stupid smug face, but he also doesn’t want to die a painful death, so he dug his nails into his neck instead. 

Cutter watched him with a catty smile, and then pushes himself up against Victor’s chest, wrapping one arm around his waist and tugging at the hand that’s clapped over his neck. 

Reluctantly, Riemann let Cutter pull his hand away, scowling and stiff. Cutter’s still smiling poisonously when he presses his lips against the burn mark and licks. Marcus stays there for a minute, Riemann still rigid against him, and then leans back enough to murmur, “You took that mark like a champ. Good boy,” he purrs. 

Victor shuddered, but stays silent. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, right now. 

“Let’s get back to bed, hm?” 

Victor nods and leads the way. The burn on his neck is throbbing angrily, and when Riemann lies down, he’s careful not to let it touch the pillow. Cutter cuddles up with him again, and Victor has to keep himself from pulling away in angry disgust. 


End file.
